Identical (22 page)

Daddy pounces.
I never gave you

permission to ride to school with

anyone named Brittany, did I?

Her eyes are like lasers, beaming

the floor tiles.
No, Daddy…
She rushes

on,
But she just got her license, and…

No, Kaeleigh! Too late. Damage

done. Daddy raises his voice.

Just got her license? Are you

plain stupid? Do you
want
to die?

The rest is implicit:
Don’t you

remember a certain infamous day?

Kaeleigh crumbles. Her face,

only moments ago binge-florid,

blanches.
Oh Daddy, I’m sorry.

She threatens to collapse, and I

whisper in her ear. “Stay strong,

or you know what he’ll do.”

Tension begins to melt from

Daddy as the painkiller starts

to kick in.
Fix me something

to eat and we’ll discuss this

further.
As he speaks, his voice

sputters a little, slurs.
O-ok-ay?

Sure, Daddy.
Kaeleigh

rushes to the refrigerator.

What are you in the mood for?

Daddy sucks down his drink.

L-loaded question.
He crosses

the floor quickly, much faster

than I’d thought him capable

of, half falls against Kaeleigh,

who’s leaning into the fridge.

I smile. Whatever he had in

mind, punishment or “reward,”

it will not come tonight.

From the refrigerator.

Kaeleigh microwaves

some leftover stew.

I watch the two of them

stuff their faces, fix

Daddy one last drink.

Between the rich food,

stiff Turkey, and three

OxyContin, he’ll be fast

asleep in a few minutes.

Most of the evening’s drama

behind us, I slip off to

the bathroom. Kaeleigh’s

disgusting food binge

made me want to purge.

It’s more than a habit.

It’s a need. Experts even

call it a disease. However

you classify it, though,

it’s not about body image.

At least not for me. For me,

it’s all about maintaining

a modicum of control,

especially when everything

goes completely ape-shit.

Hate to vomit.

Can’t stand

the protest

of an upset

stomach,

the heave

of bile and

undigested food,

the carve of

acid in the

esophagus.

Okay, I don’t

like that

part much

myself. But

I do like

the cool of

porcelain on

my face,

the solid

of tile beneath

my butt.

Most of all,

I like my belly

emptied, even

temporarily,

of food.       Of fat.       Of pain.

Puke free, I emerge from the bathroom,

into a house silent but for Daddy’s

impressive snores. Now that I’ve

evacuated my stomach, I can swallow

the Oxy I borrowed for myself.

Pop the pill, chase it with whiskey,

crawl into bed. Pray such seduction

brings dreamless sleep. Seems to take

a long time for the sleep aid to kick

in. As I wait, I feel good about aiding

Kaeleigh’s salvation tonight. Too

many times in the past, I’ve stood by,

powerless to interfere. They say

an ounce of prevention is worth a pound

of cure. There is no cure for Daddy.

Let’s hear it for prevention! Of course,

it’s not like you can always tell what Daddy

has in mind. I suppose there must be

triggers that bring him to Kaeleigh’s bedside.

If only they were more recognizable!

My body slides toward sleep, but my

brain, though fogging a bit at the edges,

is working overtime. The gathering

haze does not conceal memories

of another night. Kaeleigh was ten.

Like any of that spiritual mumbo

jumbo ever did her (or any of us)

one miniscule sliver of good.

Daddy had been back to Kaeleigh

for “lollipop licking” (my term) a few

times. She had a vague notion that it

was “wrong,” but she wasn’t sure

why, and didn’t know who to ask.

They’d probably just be jealous.

That warm summer night, she slept

in a thin white nightie, nothing more,

nothing at all under. The moon, full,

shimmered against the tan of her

exposed skin, and her hair whispered

over the pillow like a pale waterfall.

As usual, the smell of Wild Turkey

preceded Daddy. In the bright moonlight,

you could see Kaeleigh cringe in shallow

sleep. Daddy crept through the door,

to the side of her bed, stood looking down

for a very long time before stirring

her with a volley of kisses. Cheeks.

Forehead. Lips.
Oh, little girl. Do

you know how beautiful you are?

No one was ever as lovely as you,

not even your mother when she was

a child. I can’t believe you’re mine.

Kaeleigh roused at his words,

came into the moment, secure

in the aura of Daddy’s love.

She tried to sit up, but Daddy

pushed her gently back down

against the mattress.
Stay just

like that for Daddy. I want to

teach you something new.

He lifted her nightgown,

rolled it up over her belly, coaxed

her Thoroughbred legs apart.

She squirmed, a paltry protest.

Don’t move!
Daddy’s scarlet

face underlined his command.

I thought he might smack her.

But as quickly as his anger

flared, it dissipated, smoke.

Don’t be afraid. This won’t

hurt. You’ll like it. I promise.

He kissed the length of her torso,

down to the small, naked V.

It was only his mouth

that night. He didn’t even

ask her to touch him, prove

how much she loved him.

Afterward, she worried.

Didn’t he want her love

anymore? What had she done

wrong? And yet, he had taught her

something new. Something awful.

Hugged by my ostentatiously

thick mattress, falling fast, faster

toward blessed sleep, or in my

case, more likely the sleep of the

damned,

the space behind my eyes

is covered by a dark collage.

Bodies. Smiles. Leers. Faces.

Some familiar, some not, as

if

they are people I’ve yet to meet,

or maybe have already met

in another lifetime. One face

truly haunts me. I’m sure

I

knew her once upon a time.

Her hair is a rich mahogany,

her eyes vivid green, like those

of a wildcat. Where do I

know

her from? And why do I feel

such a connection, if I can’t

even recognize her face? I so

want to understand

the truth

of her, of “us.” Yes, wanting

and getting are two different

things. But intuition tells me

this puzzle needs to be solved.

Not with the election looming.

No use ruining that for Mom.

Although maybe if something

bad happened to me, something

bad enough to make me die,

she’d win the sympathy vote.

Never mind. She’d probably

be too distracted with the funeral

and the burial and the incredible

after-the-graveyard party and…

Pht-pht-pht.
Rewind that old

film to another funeral. Ugh.

Don’t want to go there. Don’t

want to see that coffin, or go

to the post-service pot luck.

I huddled alone in one corner,

trying desperately to ignore

the gut-churning potpourri